


Milk, the Flu, and Harry

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Sad, There is seriously not enough Insecure!Sherlock on here, Understanding John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a long day at surgery. All that kept him going was the mantra 'Tea and telly' that he’d been saying religiously throughout the day.</p><p>“God damn it Sherlock! How many times do I have to tell you? Tell me if we’re out of milk! Why the hell do you do this every time? Can’t you be normal for once? God, your experiments, body parts, your rudeness! No wonder they call you a freak!” </p><p>And with that, John grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, catching a cab after a few failed attempts, and quickly giving Harry’s address to the cabbie. All the while, missing a teary eyed Sherlock staring out at him from the sitting room window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk, the Flu, and Harry

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for liebling
> 
> Prompt: John leaves Sherlock for a few days (angsty) John says things he doesn’t mean (“you’re a freak”) Sherlock thinks he deserves it (he’s insecure) and packs John’s bags for him while he’s gone. John is to blame (bad day at surgery-Sherlock being Sherlock; he’s frustrated and snaps)
> 
> Goal: 500 words  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except my words

It had been a long day at surgery. Fall was just beginning, which meant flu season was taking full swing right now. It seemed like every kid’s parents in London had stopped by for the day, just to make sure their little one’s sniffles weren’t too bad. John loved being a doctor, and he loved his job, but flu season was enough to make any doctor go insane. All that kept him going was the mantra _Tea and telly_ that he’d been saying religiously throughout the day.

Sherlock Holmes is an impatient man. He’d spend all his time rushing through things if it were possible. However, as much as he loathes the activity, he _does_ in fact, require sleep. So after setting aside his experiment that he’d have to wait _three days_ for it to be ready to be examined again, Sherlock sighed and trudged to the sofa, throwing himself down and shutting off the lights in his mind palace, quickly falling to sleep.

On the way home from work, John skipped shopping at the store. It was his usual habit every three or so days to stop for the necessities, usually milk, and to get the task out of the way on his trip home. Today, however, being a Friday, and a very long one at that, he decided to skip the shopping today; hoping that there was just enough milk left for a cup of tea when he got home.

Sherlock knew John would be angry. He’d used the rest of the milk that afternoon on an experiment; testing the curdling factors in different conditions. He’d woken up after a short three hour sleep, which would be the longest he’d sleep for another three days or so. Sherlock might not seem like it, but he was a very affectionate partner. Sherlock loved nothing more than lying in bed with John on Saturday mornings, and waking up for a lazy round of tender sex. He always made sure he slept before John had a day off, that way he could be awake for every moment, unless John coaxed him under. So he was looking forward to John’s arrival home from work, eager to start the gentle touches after the domestic they would no doubt have.

John was like any other human being; when he got tired or irritated, he was cranky. He got angry easily, and he often snapped and would say things he didn’t mean. He’d always regret it after he’d had time to come to his senses, but often times he’d see red and say things out of spite before he could stop himself. Coming home to _yet another_ one of Sherlock’s experiments in the sink, _and_ come to find out all of the milk was gone, he snapped, and started yelling at Sherlock.

“God damn it Sherlock! How many times do I have to tell you? Tell me if we’re out of milk! Why the hell do you do this **every time**? Can’t you be normal for once? God, your experiments, body parts, your rudeness! No wonder they call you a **_freak!_** ”

And with that, John grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, catching a cab after a few failed attempts, and quickly giving Harry’s address to the cabbie. All the while, missing a teary eyed Sherlock staring out at him from the sitting room window.

Sure, it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had been called names, and it certainly wasn’t the first time him and John had fought; it was, however, the first time John had ever called him a _freak._ _Sentimentality. Look what it’s done to me_ he thought as he turned away from the window and stalked over to his chair in long strides. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep out of his mind palace. It sucked him in like a vacuum in space, trying to keep him there for all eternity. Every insecurity he’d buried down deep, and tried to fight constantly when he was around John, came welling up to the surface, overwhelming him and making his thoughts race.

Every time he’d ever been called a freak; every time he’d ever been told that he’d die alone, and that no one could ever love him. Every time he was told to, _“Grow up and stop that. Act like an adult, you’re five now, for god’s sake_.” Every piece of evidence he’d ever been given that he wasn’t worth it; that he shouldn’t **_be,_** flashed before his eyes and weighed down on him, until his knees gave out in the fight. Leaving him frozen in reality, and trembling in his mind. He hadn’t even known he’d done it until he found himself sitting on the sofa with his arms around his legs, like a frightened child. And he came to, to find John’s possessions packed in suitcases by the front door.

John stayed three nights at Harry’s. Friday night he went over and went straight to sleep on her sofa. Saturday he took a day to himself to calm down and think over what he was going to say to Sherlock when he went home. He had already started to feel the guilt when he woke up that morning. He had been angry sure, but he still couldn’t believe that he’d said what he did. _Of all the things I could have said…_ he trailed off in thought as he reached Harry’s door, and went back into her flat. He walked to the couch and lay down, still preparing for the disaster that waited for him the next morning.

Sherlock hadn’t slept since John had left; he hadn’t even moved. He was still waiting for John to walk through the door and pick up his bags and leave. _Maybe he’ll say goodbye._ He thought. _Maybe I’ll get to touch him one last time._ His mind was racing through everything he hoped he could do before John left him; the conclusion he knew would come inevitably, but had still hoped would turn out different.

John woke up the next morning and took a shower. Afterwards, he made Harry breakfast and tea before heading off towards home. He was worried about Sherlock; he knew the man had most likely not eaten since he’d been gone, and he probably hadn’t slept either. He started worrying about how he could get the man to eat while they talked, but he knew it was probably hopeless. After about a half hours drive, the cab pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, and he quickly passed some notes to the cabbie, exiting without the change.

If Sherlock had been paying attention, he would have heard John coming up the stairs, but he was still tied down in his mind palace; the taunts still swirling and cutting deep into his flesh. He hadn’t even realized that he’d had tears slowly trailing down his face for the duration of his torture. The only thing that had brought him out was John’s hand on his cheek, gentle and anchoring; while his words were trying to coax him out of his dungeon.

John walked into the flat to see his suitcases by the door, and then turned to see Sherlock on the sofa, knees hiked up and his arms wrapped around them, as if trying to make himself smaller. As he walked closer he saw Sherlock’s far away gaze, and tears slowly making their marks down his face one by one. After a few minutes of whispering simple words into the detective’s ears, John saw him start to come to, and slowly saw the pain on his face grow, before he quickly hid it underneath a thin mask of blankness.

“I’ve taken the liberty of packing your bags for you. If you need money for a hotel, or a flat, call Mycroft; he can set you up wherever you wish.” Sherlock said in greeting. A confused and pained look crossed John’s face,

“Why exactly would I be leaving?”

“I didn’t suppose you’d like to keep the flat yourself. If that is the case I will simply go and pack my bags. Excuse me.” He said as he tried to stand, but was kept down by John’s steady hand on his chest. Understanding washed through John, but was soon replaced with guilt.

“Sherlock, we’re not breaking up. I’m not leaving you.” Sherlock looked up at John for the first time, and he finally saw how much pain was in the brunet’s eyes.

“You said… John, I’m sorry… But; you said…” he stammered out, trying to put more words together, and failing miserably.

“Shh… Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, luv. I’m sorry; you’re okay.” He kept rambling as Sherlock pressed his face into his shoulder. John let Sherlock be for a while, holding him closely, but eventually picked Sherlock up and carried him towards their bedroom on the main floor. After Sherlock had silently cried himself to sleep, John stayed up a while longer.

That was the night that John discovered all of Sherlock’s insecurities, and discovered how much he’d wrecked Sherlock himself, just from a few words. Sherlock had closed himself off, but John had renewed the fears, and he had the ammunition to fire at them, and mistakenly had. He knew that Sherlock’s worst fear was that John would leave him, and that night, John promised to himself and to his sleeping partner, that he’d do everything in his power to keep that fear from coming true. No matter what it took. And after laying in his Sherlock’s sleeping embrace for a while, sleep soon overtook the blogger, who knew that he’d follow Sherlock anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it liebling.
> 
> Did I break your heart a little? *Evil Smile*
> 
> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


End file.
